


Unexpected Awakenings

by aurilly



Category: Psmith - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: M/M, Morning After, Wild Nights at the Drones Club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25512973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurilly/pseuds/aurilly
Summary: Mike wakes up one morning, naked and alone in bed.The thing is, the bed definitely hadn't been empty when he fell into it the night before.
Relationships: Mike Jackson/Rupert Psmith
Comments: 16
Kudos: 27
Collections: Rare Male Slash Exchange 2020





	Unexpected Awakenings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shrineofstones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shrineofstones/gifts).



As sometimes happens in these situations, Mike's first moment of waking was relatively normal. Yes, he was conscious of a dryness in his mouth, of the unusual sensation of sheets brushing against bare skin, and of a need to relieve himself. However, such physical sensations sometimes happened even on the most quotidian of mornings, when his pajama pant leg had ridden up, or when he had forgotten to carry a glass of water to his nightstand. 

It was when he tried to move that he realized much was amiss. 

Just enough sunlight slipped between the curtains to shadow the unfamiliar furniture of the room. Instead of an adventurous pajamas pant settling for a short exploration up his leg, the thing seemed to have decamped entirely, leaving him bare in the bed. Instead of sprawled in the center of the mattress, as he did in his own room, Mike could tell that he was firmly on the left side. The right side was empty, yet rumpled and still warm, suggesting a recent, though now departed, occupant.

If Mike had possessed the ability to sit up, he would have flopped dramatically back into a reclining position. As it was, he remained supine and still, moaning at the effort it took to merely cover his face with his hand.

It all began to come back in mortifying flashes. The night before had been Psmith's initiation into the Drones Club. His name had come up for the Senior Conservative quite early during his and Mike's career in London. However, it had taken many months for the letter to come from the Drones, which was smaller, more selective, and less prone to members dying. Only new inductees and the club's senior board could be present for the secret masonic rituals, but the rest of the members, and any special guests the new inductees wished to invite, were allowed in afterwards. 

Mike remembered a swimming pool, a mountain of dinner rolls that were thrown instead of ingested, and a collection of farm animals wandering the hallways whose presence no one seemed able to coherently explain. He remembered the endless popping of champagne bottles that had only ceased when someone pulled an ornamental sword down from over a mantlepiece and began sabering the bottles instead. 

Most of all, he remembered Psmith and the other four initiates dressed in nothing but white togas. The others looked like they'd been wrapped in bed-sheets, but Psmith had managed to make his attire seem regal, Ceasar-like, natural. The toga showed quite a lot of pale skin and long leg—infinitely more skin than Psmith's normal attire did. After two bottles of champagne, Mike's head and heart had failed to repress that which he normally managed to keep in check…

A knock on the door interrupted the flow and reconstruction of these piecemeal memories into a timeline.

Mike could not shout his assent, but his groan seemed to carry well enough. The door opened to reveal one of the Drones's head waiters. He carried a breakfast tray in one hand, and a garment bag in another. 

Only once he looked through the door and saw the hallway did Mike recognize his current surroundings. He was currently in one of the club's guest bedrooms, reserved for members who might need a hotel room, and for, well, for the sort of things that had transpired the night before. 

He and Psmith had come up here. They had not been the only ones to avail themselves of the empty rooms. Through the doors of the hallway, Mike could hear the hung-over groans of other young men similarly experiencing waking pangs, as well as groans that seemed to emanate for other reasons. 

Mike, who knew what all of this looked like—what _he_ looked like—flushed in mortification. He pulled the sheets up to his chin to hide his nudity, but there was no hiding the truth. 

The waiter seemed not at all bothered. In fact, he seemed wholly accustomed to such sights; Mike wondered how often these extravagant binges occurred, and how often these rooms were occupied by members with their own lodgings only down the street.

"Your breakfast, sir," the waiter said, placing the tray on the small table and opening the curtains. "And a set of clothes for today." 

Mike moaned at the intrusion of light. 

"Where did the clothes come from?" he asked, because now that the waiter was unzipping the bag, he could see that they were, indeed, his own.

"Mr Smith had them sent from your flat via courier."

"Is he downstairs?" 

"He departed over an hour ago, sir. Will that be all, sir?"

"Yes, thanks," Mike choked out, little more than an embarrassed gurgle. 

The waiter left Mike alone with his thoughts and his kippers. Although he'd been brought breakfast, the clock struck two in the afternoon. He dressed slowly, careful of his headache, after imbibing enough tea to allow him to stand. Inside his jacket pocket, he felt an envelope. It was Psmith's heavy monogrammed stationary. Mike traced his finger along the large 'P' and took a deep breath of courage before opening. He felt that his whole existence hinged on what this missive contained.

_Dear Comrade Jackson,_

_It has come to my notice that I have been working you rather hard in your capacity of confidential secretary and advisor. Like the proverbial dog (they must have meant Alaskan huskies or New Zealand shepherds when they coined that particular phrase, because all the dogs of my acquaintance are as pampered as pashas), you have toiled in my employ without cease for many months. You deserve a few days of quiet leisure, free from the demands of your role. Enjoy the sights and diversions London, Comrade Jackson. Or, if you prefer, hole up in the flat like a recluse and hurl imprecations from the windows at passersby. Whatever makes you happy. I have retired to the country for a few days. I will see you upon my return._

_Your friend,  
Psmith_

It was, by far, the shortest letter Psmith had ever written Mike, and the most restrained. Far from the multiple pages of florid digression that Mike had grown to love and expect from Psmith's correspondence, this was, for Psmith, clear and dry. No mention of what had passed between them. No change in salutation or signature. Of course, he could not put such things into a letter, but Mike had hoped for some hidden message, some coded expression of feeling. A hope to see him later that evening and continue what they had started. Instead, there was only this relative coldness.

Only after he'd collapsed back onto the bed, shaking so hard that he spilled tea all over the sheets, did he see the post-script, which was almost as long as the letter—a true Psmith flair.

_PS – If, after this brief holiday, you decide to resign from your post, I will understand. In this glorious age of unions and workers' rights, an employer who takes advantage of his staff, as I did last night, rarely retains that staff nowadays. Never fear, however; your other roles, that of steward of the Psmith estates and future Cambridge scholar, will not be jeopardized in either case._

Mike read it twice, thrice, and then threw the whole thing at the floor.

On second thought, he picked it up again, deposited it in his pocket, and left the room with the last of the toast between his teeth.

The rain had decided to come down in buckets as opposed to the usual cupfuls, but Mike barely noticed it, especially given the large umbrella Psmith had sent along with the change of clothes. He stopped in the lobby of their flat just long enough to interrogate the doorman.

"Were you here when Mr Smith left today?" he asked, forgetting the usual niceties he used with the kindly old man.

"Yes, sir. He left only an hour ago."

"Do you know where he went?"

"He had me call a car for him. Destination King's Cross."

"Thanks awfully," Mike replied, for this was all the information he needed. "Would you call me a car, also to King's Cross?"

"Will you be taking any luggage, sir?"

"No, not today."

There was only one place Psmith could be headed for. Psmith had always moaned about King's Cross Station, calling the platforms unsightly and dangerous. Something about a dangerous menagerie clogging up the place once or twice a year—owls and rats and things being wheeled around by mysterious cabals of excruciatingly dressed oddballs. It had given Psmith the pip, he'd said. The only reason he ever braved it was to pay homage and bring Fortnum & Mason pastries to his great-uncle, Sebastian Smith, who lived in Darlington. This uncle's house, Psmith had always said, had always provided a peaceful oasis during turbulent times. 

The car came quickly, and within minutes, Mike was running through the station, in search of the platform. The board said that the Newcastle train was not yet due. Psmith had to still be here. And indeed, Mike spotted a flawless hat bobbing high above everyone else's heads on platform number twelve.

"Psmith!" Mike shouted. He grabbed his friend by the shoulder and spun him around.

A cavalcade of emotions crossed Psmith's long face before settling back into carefully bland good cheer. "Comrade! What a coincidence to see you. Have you decided to spend your holiday cataloguing the various railway stations of London? They are all unique, all architectural gems. I have myself sometimes thought of—"

"I don't want a holiday," Mike said. 

"Ah," Psmith said, his face falling. "So, it is your full resignation you are tendering, is it? I feared as much." 

"Come off it, Smith. Be serious."

"What could you possibly mean? I never jest." 

"If you want to be rid of me, you'll have to say so. To my face. Clearly, and without any muddying."

"Me? Want to be rid of you?" The look of complete shock on Psmith's face—so difficult to elicit, especially for Mike—suddenly suggested a different avenue than that which Mike had so far gone down.

Mike was no genius, and had cribbed his way through most of his language studies. However, he was a perfect interpreter of Psmith. 

"Your letter wasn't about quitting me, was it? You weren't…" Light dawned on Mike, both figuratively, as well as through the giant glass panes of the station. "You thought _I_ wanted to… Oh, you idiot."

"We all make mistakes. Young blood, wild oats, high spirits, all that. And the port _was_ of exceptionally high vintage. It was a mistake that might have happened to anyone."

"It wasn't a mistake, Psmith. I'd… I'd been wanting to for awhile."

"I see." Psmith cleaned his monocle. "I see I've been something of a blitherer, for I have wanted to as well."

"Will you come back to the flat?" Mike asked, feeling only a little embarrassed at the high pitch with which he added, "Please?"

"If I do, whatever shall we do with these pastries I purchased for my uncle?" Psmith held up the bag.

"I don't intend to leave the flat for the rest of the day, so they'll make a sort of dinner."

They could hardly kiss in the station, but the way Psmith gripped Mike's hand as they left the station was a nice prelude to the rest of the evening.


End file.
